The Embassy Suites
Omaha, Nebraska

Father Michael Keller listened to Timmy talk about the Explorers’ Summer Program he was taking. He had gone into great detail describing the swords and ceremonial cups and musical instruments his new teacher had on display in her classroom. He told Timmy what he knew about the Crusades and the early Catholic Church’s attempt to spread Christianity even if it meant slaughtering thousands.

They talked about the Black Plague and the Knights Templar. They drank three-dollar Cokes from the minibar until there were none left and they devoured a can of Pringles, several candy bars and a jar of Gummi Bears.

Keller wasn’t sure how much time had passed. It didn’t matter. The digitalis had relieved him of most of his symptoms, though he still felt a bit feverish. The throbbing hadn’t begun. The boy had begun to trust him. He had made a phone call to his own room’s voice-messaging service, and while Timmy believed Keller was talking to his uncle Nick, he actually talked over the menu telling him how to access his voice mail. As long as Timmy believed he was in contact with his uncle he didn’t seem to question the delay.

A loud knock on the door startled both of them.

Keller thought it might be someone from the hotel, perhaps bringing the extra towels he had requested when he knew he’d be inviting Timmy back to his suite, when he knew there would be a bit of a mess to clean up. He checked the peephole but no one was there. He started to open the door, when it swung open, slamming into his nose and knocking him back against the wall.

He couldn’t see through the blur and grabbed his nose, his hand filling with blood. The sting spiderwebbed across his face. Someone shoved him into the wall and he felt the gun muzzle against his temple just as he heard the door slam shut.

“Don’t move, you bastard,” came a woman’s voice he quickly identified. “I’d like nothing better than to blow your brains all over this room.”

“Hello, Agent O’Dell.” He tried to sound calm but the blood was trickling down his throat now. He hated tasting his own blood. It started to panic him, reminding him too much of his stepfather.

“Hey, what’s going on?” He heard Timmy yell from the other side of the room.

“Stay over there, Timmy,” she said. “Do you remember me? Maggie O’Dell.”

“Yeah, I remember. I saw you at school the other day.”

“You need to stay over there, Timmy,” she repeated and tightened her grip on Keller’s arm. Only then did the pain make him realize she had twisted his left arm up against his back.

“You can relax, Agent O’Dell,” he said, hating the catch in his voice telegraphing his fear. Now that his vision was no longer blurred, he noticed the blood running between his fingers and down his arm. The sight of his own blood made him nauseous and a bit light-headed.

“Like hell I will,” she hissed in his ear and the muzzle pressed farther into his skull.

“But Agent O’Dell,” Timmy said, “I don’t understand. He’s with the Omaha police.”

“Is that what he told you?”

“The boy misunderstood,” Keller tried to explain, despite his arm being yanked even higher up his back. He could feel the texture of the cheap wallpaper scrape against his cheek, and again, a memory flooded back to him of his stepfather shoving him against another wall, all those years ago. It made him angry. But it also scared him. “I only said that I was working with the Omaha Police Department.” He spit out blood but more trickled down his throat and the taste almost made him gag.

“Did he hurt you, Timmy?”

“Hurt me?”

“Are you okay?”

“I didn’t hurt the boy.”

“Shut up! I’m not asking you.” O’Dell shoved the gun muzzle so hard against his temple he could taste metal, or was it his blood that now tasted like metal?

“Timmy, did he hurt you?”

“I’m okay. We just talked and stuff.”

“You what?”

Her surprise at this made Keller smile, despite the pain shooting up between his eyes. He was sure she had broken his nose.

“We talked. About knights and the Crusades and stuff. We just talked.”

Keller wished he could see O’Dell’s face. She had probably hoped to catch him doing something worthy of her shooting him between the eyes. So that when the others showed up—because, of course, the fearless Margaret O’Dell had not waited for backup once again—she’d have to tell them that it was necessary. That she had to shoot him, had to unload every single one of her bullets into his chest or else he’d hurt the poor boy.

“Timmy, you still don’t recognize him, do you?”

There was silence and now he could hear her breathing. She was breathing too hard to be in control.

“It’s Father Keller,” she said.

And she yanked him away from the wall for Timmy to see his face. The boy now looked at him like he was some monster. Keller saw him stepping back even farther into the room before she smashed his face into the wall again. This time he heard the gun make some weird click when she pressed it into his temple.

“What are you doing, Agent O’Dell?”

“What I should have done back in that tunnel. You remember that dark hole under the cemetery? The one where you shoved your fillet knife into my side.”

“You’re wrong. You don’t know what you’re talking about. I think you should—”

“Maybe if I had, little boys like Arturo would still be alive. How many others have there been, Keller?”

“You can’t do this. You’re an FBI agent.” He didn’t recognize his own voice, a high-pitched whine, almost a cry.

“And my job as an FBI agent is to hunt down and destroy evil.”

Was she possessed? He wanted to turn and look at her, but he was afraid the slightest move and she might use it as an excuse to pull the trigger. His stomach ached. His face throbbed and he tried to keep from sobbing or the blood running down his throat would choke him.

Someone banged on the door and his heart skipped a beat. O’Dell, however, didn’t seem to flinch. Her hold remained steady.

“Police,” someone called from the other side of the door. “Open up.”

Keller held his breath. O’Dell didn’t move. Not an inch. It felt like the muzzle was making a hole in the side of his head.

“O’Dell?” the voice called. “It’s Pakula. Are you okay?”

Silence except for her heavy breathing and an annoying whining sound. Oh God, the whine was coming from deep inside his throat.

“O’Dell? Are you in there? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she finally said and adjusted her hold on his arm.

“I’m coming in.”

There was a pause and then Keller saw the door begin opening slowly. He lifted his face away from the wall only to have it shoved back, this time knocking the side of his head. But he could see Detective Pakula’s alarm before the detective was able to disguise it.

“Whadya doing, O’Dell?”

“What I should have done four years ago.”

“Come on, O’Dell.” He saw Pakula look around them. “It looks like the kid is okay.”

“But he wouldn’t have been if I hadn’t gotten here.”

“You okay, son?” Pakula called out to Timmy.

“Yeah.” But Keller noticed the boy’s voice wasn’t very convincing, weak and small.

“I didn’t do anything to him. We just talked.” Keller tried to defend himself.

“If he’s done something, we’ll take care of him,” Detective Pakula told her, but she still didn’t ease up. “Come on, O’Dell.”

Keller could see that the detective was close enough to reach out and touch her, take the gun away. Why didn’t he? He could stop her. He needed to stop her.

“Timmy,” she said without flinching. “Go with Detective Pakula.”

Keller didn’t hear the boy move.

This time she yelled, “Now!” And he heard Timmy rush out, squeezing past them.

“I didn’t hurt him,” Keller pleaded. He knew exactly why she was making the boy leave. She didn’t want him to see what she was going to do. She didn’t want him to have nightmares.

“O’Dell,” Detective Pakula said, checking to make sure the boy was safe in the hallway. Keller could see the detective was becoming anxious. “Come on. You don’t want to do this.”

Keller started whining again, sobs with chokes. Then all of a sudden he was free.

O’Dell pulled the gun away. She dropped his arm. He stayed pressed against the wall, not trusting her. He didn’t move until she pushed past Detective Pakula. And even then he shut his eyes and concentrated on breathing. He thought he heard the door close. And when he opened his eyes again, he was alone.

Keller locked the door’s dead bolt and made his way to the bathroom. He was shocked by the bloody, sweaty face that looked back at him. His nose wasn’t broken, despite all the blood. He pulled off his sweat-drenched clothes and washed himself, rinsing his mouth and then standing under the showerhead, letting the warm water run over his pain. By the time he slid into a fresh pair of boxers he was feeling better. He had already begun to wipe the episode from his mind.

He wandered back to the bed where his suitcase lay, where he had left it earlier, ready for his evening before his unexpected visitor. He opened the suitcase and found his wooden box on top. He lifted the lid off the box and pushed aside the newspaper articles, the small tin of oil and the vial of ether. He ran his fingers over Arturo’s small underpants and then lifted several more pairs until he saw the fillet knife safely tucked underneath. With a heavy sigh he covered it again and closed the lid of the wooden box.